


After

by miss_grey



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-War, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Getting Together, Homophobic Language, Life is hard and the boys are stubborn, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racist Language, Slow Burn, jealous snafu
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-11-21 15:07:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11359941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: No one ever explained how you were supposed to survive AFTER the war.  Sledge and Shelton figure out, the hard way, that it wasn’t meant to be done alone.





	1. Watching the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This story is based on the characters from HBO's The Pacific, rather than the real soldiers. No disrespect meant to them whatsoever.

 

 

Eugene stood on the front porch of his parents’ home, one arm wrapped securely around his middle, but not too tight, just there, subtlely holding himself together.  In his other hand, he held a half-smoked cigarette which he robotically puffed as he watched the rain pour down just beyond the shelter of the porch.  He’d been standing out there for a while, just watching as the rain came down, heavy enough to have made puddles in the long drive.  He was on his fourth or fifth cigarette, maybe.  He wasn’t sure.  Didn’t even really count anymore.  Didn’t think about it, even, beyond his mother’s occasional “ _Eugene, dear, you know I hate it when you do that.  It’s terrible for your lungs._ ”  On those occasions, Eugene would nod acknowledgement to his mother and do his best to stamp the cigarette out, wait until she was gone before lighting another.  Of course they were bad for you.  Of course they’d kill you.  But, Eugene had learned, so would most things in this world, given the chance.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sid stopped by at least twice a week, just to see how he was doing, just to make sure that he was okay—at least, as okay as he was going to be.  Usually they just sat on the porch and smoked together (though Sidney was trying to quit because Mary didn’t like it) or they took long, rambling walks through the woods and over the Sledge estate.  They didn’t usually talk about much besides what Sidney was doing with his life now: job, girl, house.  He had things figured out, mostly. 

Eugene was grateful that Sid didn’t push.  Just about everybody did, but not him.  He understood what it was like.  Coming back.  After.  The crushing weight of trying to move past the war, what Eugene had seen, what he’d done, _what he’d become_ during his time with the Corps.  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to figure out what to do with his life, it’s just that he didn’t know how.  All of the usual things—house, wife, job—just didn’t seem important in the grand scheme of things.  Eugene wasn’t the same person he’d been before the war, and he didn’t want the same things anymore.  Though, truth be told, looking back, he couldn’t figure out what he’d wanted _before_ the war, either, except to join up, to serve his country, to do the right thing.  But what was the right thing now?  He’d thought about college, had even asked about a technical school program, but that hadn’t gone well.

And so he sat, and he thought too much, and the world simultaneously closed in on him, and stretched out, vast, empty, meaningless. 

Sid was a good friend, and he’d seen his share of horrors on those little pieces of dirt islands in the Pacific that no one had known the names of before the war and no one cared to know about after it.  But he hadn’t been there with Eugene.  He hadn’t seen what Eugene had become.  How he’d chosen to survive.  What he’d been willing to do in order to make it out alive and make sure his friends did too.  He didn’t know Eugene’s friends—the ones he lost, and the ones who he just lost touch with.  And he didn’t understand about Snafu.

 

* * *

 

 

The nights were the worst.  Eugene barely slept anymore, preferring instead to sit awake in a brightly lit room reading from one of his many books, doing his best to keep himself occupied.  Often, he had tea with his mother (who stared at him worriedly whenever she thought he wasn’t looking) or his father, who was kind enough not to ask him why he wasn’t sleeping.  All his father had done was offer a sedative that he said might help Eugene get some sleep.  Eugene had declined, and his father hadn’t pushed.

When he _did_ manage to fall asleep, eventually, his unconscious was plagued by memories and horrific what-if scenarios that thankfully hadn’t taken place.  Some nights he was trudging over the hot wasteland landscape of Peleliu, the sun beating down on him and his friends while they slowly died from dehydration and struggled not to get shot or blown up by the ceaseless enemy fire.  Other nights, he was stuck in the mud on Okinawa, near drowning in the stuff, while his skin crawled from the feel of maggots and filth covering him.  Didn’t matter if they weren’t really there.  Eugene would feel them until the day he died.  Other nights, he wasn’t even sure what he saw, it was more just a feeling, a sucking panic that dragged him down, down, down, and had his pulse racing and his heart leaping in his chest.  He woke to gasping breaths and cold sweats and his fingers twisted in his bed sheets, just doing his best to hold on and bear through it.  Some nights, he held Jay while he cried and shook apart.  Sometimes he was scrambling, with the stretcher grasped tight in his hands, down a never-ending rock face while artillery exploded around him.  He never made it and Hillbilly always died.  Sometimes he was just stuck there, unable to move, while he watched Ack Ack die.  Or sometimes it was Hamm and he was equally as useless.  Sometimes it was Burgie, who’d take a quick bullet to the throat and drop, gurgling blood, and that was it, they were off running again, always running and hiding and praying for their miserable lives.  Sometimes it was him—he didn’t always die.  Sometimes he just became the thing he was afraid of, the thing he’d been fighting against the whole time.  Sometimes he just gave in to his darkest impulses and that was it—there was no saving him.  Other times he took a bullet to the gut, or shrapnel to the face like Bill Leyden, or slowly died of a wasting disease like they were all secretly afraid of.  Other times, it was Snafu who died.  Always just a hand span away from Eugene when it happened.  Sometimes Eugene woke up gasping, thinking he was still on a train to Mobile, but he was alone again.  Sometimes, he wandered through row upon row of tents on Pavuvu, asking where he could find PFC Shelton, only to be told that he didn’t exist.  Those ones were maybe the worst.


	2. Three Months and Four Days

 

 

 

Merriell sat at his rickety kitchen table and drank his second cup of coffee of the morning.  Outside, the sun was just starting to come up, but already his neighbors were at it, screaming and shoving each other around so that they thumped against the too-thin walls.  He took a drag off his cigarette and exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a moment’s peace.  The wall rattled again.  “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” he drawled, not even bothering to glance the way of the racket.  Wouldn’t do any good.  It was always like this, and probably always would be.  Anyway, he only had another hour or so of killing time before he had to be to work. 

He stared down at the envelope that sat, innocuous but dreadful, in the middle of his table.  It was the third of its kind and it had been sitting there for near on two days now, still unopened.  Merriell thought that maybe it’s because he was doing himself a favor, but also maybe it’s because he was a coward.

It had taken three months and four days before the first letter had arrived.  It had taken him another twelve days before he forced himself to open it.  The return address had been enough reason for him to throw it away and never think about it again.  The return address had been enough reason for his heart to hammer in his hollow chest, for his palms to sweat, for him to clutch it to himself while he fought back a wave of emotion that he didn’t want to think on long enough to name.  Fuck.

It had started:

_I don’t even know what to call you anymore.  Are you still Snafu, now that the war’s over, or are you Merriell, or Shelton, or are you someone I’ve never even met before?_

It had ended with:

_Why’d you do it?_

Merriell had read it over several times, and had clutched it close and kept it.  But he hadn’t responded.  Had no idea what he’d say even if he was brave enough to say anything at all, if he could summon the nerve to put pencil to paper and say something back.  What was there to say to a question like that?  Why’d he do it?  Do _what_?  He’d done so many things in his life.  Some he was ashamed of, but most of them things he didn’t regret.  Which of his many sins was Sledge concerned with?  He didn’t say in the letter, but somehow Merriell knew anyway. 

The second letter came two weeks after the first, just two days after Merriell had summoned the courage to read the first.  It was like taking a fucking bullet, coming back to his apartment after a long day at the lumberyard and seeing the second letter waiting there for him.  Merriell hadn’t even picked it up off the floor, had skirted around it for another couple days.  Then he’d come home one night, a storm chasing his heels, and water had splashed in after him, onto the letter, smearing the ink of the return address.  He’d panicked then, stooped and tore the letter out of the envelope before the words could be ruined, erased by his carelessness.  His fingers had trembled when he’d been confronted by the words; he hadn’t been ready to read it yet. 

The second one had started:

_I can’t decide whether I’m more angry with you or myself._

It had ended with:

_I hope you are doing alright.  Take care of yourself._

Merriell sighed, his fingers just skirting the edge of the third letter.  He had another hour before work.  Enough time to read it.  Enough time, later, to try to forget it.  Enough time to drink and smoke and sweat, and beat himself up before he dumped himself onto his sagging mattress at the end of the day.

He slid a finger under the flap and ripped it open, his pulse roaring, thick and frantic, in his ears. 

The third one started:

_I don’t know if you are even getting these letters, or if you read them, but I’m going to keep sending them, because that’s all I can think to do. That’s the only thing that seems to make me feel any better.  It’s the only thing that relieves even a bit of this crushing panic, and the never ending pain that sits just somewhere behind my ribs.  God, I don’t know how much longer I can do this.  How much longer I’ll be able to hold myself together.  It’s getting harder._

It had ended:

_I miss you._

Merriell sat back, eyes blank, heart stilling back to normal, calm.  The paper eventually fell from his fingers, but he didn’t notice.  He wasn’t even in his shitty little apartment anymore—he was somewhere else.  Somewhere far away, maybe on an island in the Pacific, maybe on a train, maybe halfway to Mobile already.

When he blinked and looked at the time, he realized he was late for work.


	3. Things That Need Saying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys have officially revolted and taken over the story. *shrugs* They do what they want.

 

 

It was just after 7, the sun having given way to the colorful closeness of dusk, ebbing toward black, when Eugene was roused from his reading by the glint of headlights that bounced across his bedroom wall from the drive down below.  He heard the crunch of tires on the drive, the roar of an engine as it drove away.  He vaguely heard the knock, below, but ignored it.  He drew his attention back to the book in his hands.  Below, the door opened, and the black, printed words blurred in front of his eyes.  Steps on the stairs, outside his door.  It creaked open and his mother stood there, a slight frown on her lips.

“What is it?”  Eugene asked.  His heart, it seemed, had paused, waiting for the answer.

Her brow creased in worry.  “There’s a man downstairs.  He says he wants to speak with you.  He wouldn’t give his name.”

Eugene’s tongue clicked dryly in his mouth and he fought to swallow, struggled to his feet as his heart gave a great leap, kicking against his ribs.  He set his book down without saving his place, walked out the door past his mother without replying, and down the hallway, down the stairs, and across the parlor until…

He pushed the door open wider from where it had been cracked and Eugene felt the earth open up below him, swallow him, suck him down, down, down.  God, it was happening.  Too much.

_He_ stood there, and glanced up sharply through the fringe of his dark lashes where he’d been toeing the wood of the porch with his scuffed boot, a cigarette hanging loose in his hand, a wisp of smoke escaping from his lips. “ _Gene._ ”  He said.

Eugene had imagined this happening in so many different ways.  He’d imagined hugging him, pulling him as close as their bodies might allow.  Had imagined punching him in the jaw, shoving him, pushing him down.  Had imagined tangling his fingers in his messy, curling hair, and pulling him so that their lips were crushed together, so that they could share the same breath.  He’d imagined it happening so many ways.  But now that it was happening, Eugene found that he couldn’t say or do anything except for stare at the man in front of him. Eugene raised a thin, pale hand, stretched his fingers out, then let it drop back to his side before it connected to warm, tan skin, so close.

“What,” Eugene cleared his throat, took a step forward and shut the door behind himself.  “What are you doing here?”

Pale eyes stared at him from within a solemn face, half-shadowed in the quickly darkening dusk.  “I read your letters.”

Eugene felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes but he pushed them back, took a gulp of air.  “I wasn’t sure you were even receiving them.”  Eugene swallowed, straightened his back.  Inside, he was a rapid building storm, dark and swirling, grief and hope and love and rage.  “You never wrote back.”

Pale eyes darted away on a snort and the cigarette was dropped, crushed under his boot.  “What was I s’posed to say?”

Eugene shrugged, overwhelmed by his very presence, weighed down by all of the words that he still wanted to say, that he was too afraid to say, that he wanted to hear.  “Anything.  Anything would have been better than nothing.”

“You think so?”  Angry flash of eyes.  “And if I told you to stop writing me?  That what you wanna hear?  That I wish I’d never gotten those letters?  That I wish….”

“What?”  Eugene pressed, heart in his throat.  “That you wish what?”

“That some days I wish I’d never fucking met you, Sledge.”

Eugene struggled to breathe, struggled to keep the panic in, and the dark from closing in on him.  “Well, you did.”  He took another step forward, surer than the first, pressing close into the other man’s space, so that he was forced to take a step back.  “You did meet me.  And you became my friend.  Became….”  His own eyes were wet, with anger and memories and the push to just take another fucking step.  “It’s your own damn fault I made it out of there.  If you didn’t want to have to deal with me after, you should have just let me die back there.  You don’t get to…. You don’t get,” He hiccupped, not quite ready to say it.

“Gene,” The other man said again, finally moving toward Eugene instead of away, his own hand trembling as he raised it, and the other, curled his fingers in the soft fabric of Eugene’s white shirt.  “Don’t.”  His voice was rougher than Eugene remembered.  “Don’t say that.  That ain’t what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“I mean it’s me too, Gene.  Okay?  It’s not just you.  I hurt too.  And all I wanna do is forget it, move on.  I want to try to fucking lick my wounds and heal and you won’t let me.  You keep tearing the stitches open.”

“I don’t know how not to,” Gene whispered, voice wavering.  “I don’t know how to move past any of that, or forget about what happened.  I don’t know how, and you’re the only one who knows.  You’re the only one and I… I c-can’t, Snaf.  I can’t.”

“Fuck,” he said, pale eyes shuttering behind heavy lids, bruised from lack of sleep and stress.

“Yeah.”  Eugene agreed.

They were quiet for a while after that, standing together as the sky grew darker and the night was filled with the sound of crickets and cicadas.  They only looked at each other out of the corners of their eyes, when they thought the other wouldn’t notice.  Finally, Eugene drew a couple cigarettes from the pack he carried with him, and lit them, offered one to his friend, who took it without comment.  He nodded his head toward the darkness and the other man followed, down the steps, out onto the drive and down the road, side by side, close enough that they could have touched if they weren’t both afraid to.

They walked down the lane, outside the gates of the Sledge estate, before the silence was broken by Eugene.  “It’s good to see you.”  It was true.  No matter how this turned out, how painful it was.  It was enough to see him, to know that his friend was alive and not lying at the bottom of a muddy grave like he dreamed so often. 

“Yeah,” the other voice croaked, accent thick.  “You too, Gene.”  He kicked a pebble and it skipped down the street in front of them.  “Never thought I’d see you again.”

A dark chuckle rumbled out of Eugene’s chest, unintentional, of its own accord.  “Yeah, me either.”  He didn’t have to say it.  The air was thick with the unsaid words, so thick both men could hear them anyway.  They said _You left me,_ and accused _You betrayed me,_ and defended _I didn’t have a choice._ But they didn’t say any of those things.  Instead, the night closed in on them again.

“You said you didn’t know what to call me, anymore.”  He said.  “In your letter.”

Eugene nodded, though he doubted the other man could see the slight movement in the dark.  “I don’t.”

His friend laughed, and it was a dark sound, as dark as Eugene remembered: half amusement and half sick rage buried deep.  “You can call me whatever you want, Gene.  Hell, I don’t know who the hell I am either, half the time.”

“Who was it who left me alone on that train?”  No answer, just the thick silence of guilt and betrayal and anger.  “Right.”  Eugene kicked viciously at a stone.  “Merriell, then.  That ok?”

“That’s fine, Sledge.”  Merriell murmured in the dark.

Eugene snorted.  “It ain’t fine.  Nothing’s fine anymore.  Listen to us.  This is what’s left of us now.  When did it get like this, Mer?”

Merriell sighed.  “It was always gonna be like this, Sledge.  Ain’t no other way.”

“There is!”  Eugene growled.  “It didn’t have to end up this way!  We didn’t have to be like strangers to each other now!  I thought…. I thought we were gonna stay friends.  You were supposed to wake me up!”

Merriell stopped and turned to him in the dark, pale eyes glinting in the light of the newly risen moon.  He shoved at Eugene’s shoulder.  “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?  All of it?” 

Eugene shoved him back.  “You left me!  You left me behind, Mer!  After everything!  We got each other through!  We killed together, fought together, survived together!  You were the best friend I’ve ever had, you were the one person I knew I could always count on, and you left me!”

“Well I ain’t sorry!”  Merriell growled, shoving back harder.  “I’m not!  I’m not sorry, Eugene, and I ain’t gonna say that I am.  It was the right thing to do!  It was the best fucking thing I could ever do for you, don’t you understand that?  It was _all I had_ and I gave it to you!  Don’t you fucking understand that?!”  Eugene reached for him, but Merriell shoved him away roughly.  “I was doing the best thing I knew to do for you, for the both of us, and I’m not sorry I left you there, soft and still, and going home to your parents here in Mobile.  I’m only sorry that you wouldn’t let it go!  I’m sorry that you tracked my sorry ass down and wouldn’t let it die.  The war is over, Gene!  It’s over.  You don’t need me anymore!”

“Fuck you!”  Eugene roared, before he lashed out, grabbing hold of Merriell’s shirt, twisting the fabric tight in his hands.  “Fuck you, Mer!  That’s where you’re wrong.  I _do_ still need you!  I needed you, and you were gone.  Just like that.  Gone!”  He shook the other man, and his throat closed up, tears choking him as they burned his eyes and his throat, streamed down his cheeks.  “I do need you.  God.  So fucking much that it hurts.  Don’t you think I wish I didn’t?!  Well, I do!”  He sobbed.  “I wish I didn’t need you.  I wish I could let it go.  But I can’t.  I can’t, Mer, and it’s killing me.”

“Fuck,” Merriell hissed, knocking Sledge’s hands away, untangling them from his shirt.  “Fuck.”  He moved forward then, and pulled the other man tight against him, wrapping his thin, wiry arms around Eugene even as the other man fought the embrace. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Merriell murmured, and that was the truth, “I never meant that.  That’s the one thing I am sorry for, I guess,” Merriell sighed.  “It wasn’t your fault, Sledge.  There was nothing you coulda done to change it.  Not your fault.  Not you.”  Merriell held him tightly, one hand pressed to Eugene’s back, twisted in the fabric there, the other gripping the back of his neck, holding him close.  “God, we’re a real fuckin mess, ain’t we?”

Eugene laughed, a sad, wet sound, and mumbled “Guess we are.”


	4. These Few Hours

 

 

Eventually they untangled themselves and continued their walk through the darkness, side by side but no longer touching.  Both of them were already too raw from the contact, from the words they’d ripped from their throats, their souls, their hearts.  It was already too much, and now they were exhausted.

They’d gone through countless cigarettes on their way, dropping butts carelessly behind them as they moved through the shadows.  Eugene’s pack felt much lighter now than it had before they left the house.  He tapped another couple out and lit them, passed one over. 

Beside him, Merriell took a grateful drag, the smoke burning through his lungs, cleansing, calming.  His voice was soft and low against the deepening night.  “Thought you preferred a pipe, Gene.”

Eugene snorted.  “I smoke my pipe when I want to relax.”  He took a long drag off his cigarette, took his time blowing the smoke out in front of him.  “I haven’t wanted that lately.  Don’t feel like I deserve it.”  When his friend made a sound of vague protest next to him, Eugene pushed on.  “Cigarettes will do me just fine for now.”

The night closed in on them again, thick with tension, thick with things that they still hadn’t said.  There was so much between them.  So much. Too much, maybe.  How were you supposed to just take all of that and try to make sense out of it?  Try to move past it?  They’d been one thing to each other for a very long time, endless, it seemed.  And now they weren’t.  At least, they weren’t that anymore.  So what were they now?  Were they anything?

“I can practically hear you thinkin’ too hard over there, Sledge.”

“Can’t help it.”  Eugene murmured.  “Got a lot on my mind.”

“Hmmm,” Shelton hummed, as he flicked his cigarette away, already gone.

“So how long are you here for?”  Eugene asked, though he felt like he already knew the answer.

“Train leaves in the morning,” Merriell said, shoving his hands jerkily into his pockets.

“Okay.”  Eugene said.

“Never meant to stay,” Shelton added, staring resolutely forward.  “Still wonderin’ whether coming at all was a good idea.”

“I’m glad you did,” Eugene admitted.  “Even if it was just for this little while.  It was good to see you.”  He sighed, pitched his own cigarette butt.  “I did miss you.”

Merriell, or was it Snaf?  Eugene’s best friend nodded, but didn’t say the words in return.  He wasn’t surprised.

“Got a place to stay?”

“Don’t need one.  Don’t really feel like sleeping.  It’s only a few hours away, anyhow.  Figured I’d walk on back to the station and wait.”

Eugene swallowed thickly.  “I could drive you, if you wanted… if you wanted to stay for a few more hours.”

“Don’t know if that’s a good idea, Gene.” And yeah, that was Snafu.  Eugene snorted.  They were all the same, weren’t they?

“You’re already here.”  Eugene pressed.

“Yeah,” Snaf sighed.  “Okay.”

They eventually made it back to the Sledge household but despite the late hour, Merriell refused to go inside.  Eugene knew not to push, knew that sometimes his friend was like a stray cat—push too soon, too hard, and it would run away and you’d never see it again.  Better just to leave the door open, in case.

So they settled themselves on the porch steps, glasses of water that Snafu had finally conceded to and more cigarettes between them.

Eugene stared at his friend in the dark.  His friend.  This man who’d appeared out of nowhere, way too late, but maybe just in the nick of time.  It was funny, Eugene thought, how someone could look and smell, could _feel_ so familiar and safe and so utterly like home, and yet appear to be a stranger at the exact same time.  For an endless time, Snafu had been one of Eugene’s only touchstones of reality, one of the only things that sometimes literally dragged him through the mud, over the hills, across stinking beaches and scorching sands.  He’d been Eugene’s dark shadow, always there, always watching, a sneer and a harsh word on edge, waiting to be released.  Cruelty tinged with a surprising softness that was reserved maybe just for Eugene.  He’d rarely seen Snafu spare an ounce of softness for the others.  Maybe Burgie or Jay once or twice.  Maybe the morning after Peck lost it.  Maybe.  But nothing like _shoulder to shoulder, sitting in the mud together, soft eyes, a soft voice whispering “I'm sorry.”_ Eugene hadn’t even been sure that Snaf knew the word, let alone might say it.  But he had. 

He’d dished out tough love from the beginning, had done his best to harden Eugene up—at first, Eugene was sure the other man was just fucking with him, giving him hell, and maybe that _was_ how it started, but it changed soon after that.  Soon, it was snarling and pushing and prodding and scolding and dark words, dark thoughts, dark deeds, all meant to push Eugene forward, forward, forward, one step in front of the other, never hesitating, never turning back, never losing his footing.  It was hell.  All of it was hell.  But he’d made it out.  They both had.  Now what?  He _knew_ this man beside him, knew the way that his eyes looked in a million different shades of light and darkness, knew the exact shade of his blood, the way he almost looked like a skeleton sometimes, too thin and covered in mud.  Eugene knew the feel of his hands, his breath, the bump of his shoulder, his hip, the feel of his foot nudging him awake, the weight of his head as it tipped onto a weary shoulder.  God, those were the things that Eugene knew.  Those were real things.  What else mattered, really, when he knew _those_ things?

“Why’d you come?” Eugene asked, finally, a chill shuddering through him in the otherwise warm air.  “If you didn’t mean to stay?  You never said.”

Shelton sighed next to him.  “I… I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“And if I’m not?”

Snafu turned to him in the dark, pale eyes wide, sharp.  A hint of insanity there, still.  “I ain’t your keeper, Sledgehammer.  I can’t be that.”

“I don’t want you to.” Eugene murmured.

“Then what else _do_ you want from me, Eugene?  I ain’t got nothin’ else.  I already gave you everythin’ I had.”

“I just want my friend, man.” Eugene whispered. 

“I ain’t good at this, Gene.”

“Good at what?  Being a friend?”  Eugene smiled softly to himself and dared to lean over, bump his shoulder against Snafu’s.  “Sorry to break it to you, Snaf, but you’re the best friend I ever had.”  He chuckled.  “You did okay.”

“That was before, Sledge.  The war was different.  Now… well, I’m not so good at…after.”

“Neither am I, Snaf.”  He shrugged.  “We could help each other.”

“I don’t think it’d be good for me to help anyone.  I’m still….”  Merriell choked on his own words, sounding strangled.  “I’m fucked up, Gene.  Really fucked up.”  He motioned vaguely with his hands.  “I don’t fit into this world.  This calm.  This peace.  This goin’ back ta normal like it never even happened.  Like I didn’t kill a bunch a Japs.  Like I wasn’t good at it.”  He laughed darkly.  “But you… Gene, you _had_ all of that before the war.  And you could have it again.  Look around you!  You’ve got a home and family that loves you.  Could get a girl. Go to school.  Do whatever you want to.  It’s not too late for you.”  Maybe it was water that filled his voice next, or maybe it was just Eugene imagining things in the dark.  “I’m not a good person, Gene.  And it ain’t good for you to be around me.  Never was a good thing, but specially not now.  That’s why I left you.”  Snafu murmured.  “I left because I knew that you’d never be the one to do it.”  He glanced at Eugene in the darkness, just a flash of pale eyes, of quivering lips, the tremble of his voice.  “You’re too good a person to ever let go on your own.”

Eugene swallowed thickly.  “I don’t need you making choices for me, Snaf.”

“And I don’t need you making mine for me either, Gene.”

They were quiet again for a long time after that, watching the stars, smoking the time away.  Then Merriell cleared his throat.  “Gettin’ late.  You should sleep.”

Eugene snorted.  “Thought you weren’t my keeper?”  Snafu tensed beside him, automatic at having been caught.  Jesus, it was second nature to him still, wasn’t it?  Watching out for Gene?  Eugene figured that must be exhausting.  “It’s alright, Snaf.  I’m not tired.  And anyway, if you’re leaving in the morning, I don’t want to waste this little bit of time sleeping.”

“Alright.”

 

 

 

They spoke softly after that, of Shelton’s job and Eugene’s family, of Sidney’s engagement to Mary Houston.  Of things that didn’t really matter, in the grand scheme of things.  The hours alternately dragged and flew by, and they finally found themselves at a tentative truce, neither of them willing to break it now that it’d been gained.  Merriell didn’t make any promises, and Eugene didn’t ask him to stay.

Far too soon, the sun came up and it was time to go. 

Eugene borrowed his father’s car before anyone else in the house was even awake, and the two of them drove quietly to the station a few miles into town.  They arrived there too soon.

Eugene left the car at the curb and followed his friend into the station to wait, unwilling to simply drop him off and drive away.  Snaf had been right about one thing.  Eugene wasn’t the letting go type.  Even now, this wait was a little too much, like he was coming up on his own execution.  He was a dead man walking, and the platform was where it was gonna happen, where his heart would be ripped from his chest, and he’d be left, hollow, broken, like a marionette with its strings cut.

The train was right on time.

As it pulled to a stop at the platform, Merriell turned to Eugene, his face a mask that was already cracking—Eugene had gotten real good at reading him, even when Snafu didn’t want him to.  He also looked like maybe this was the end.  They reached for each other, hands trembling in the distance, still, before Eugene threw caution to the wind and stepped closer, pulled Merriell to him just for a second, just long enough that the other man would know that he wasn’t ready to let go yet, that he’d be missed, that Eugene still thought this was a mistake, that it was killing him, killing them both, unnecessary.

He pulled back, tears in his eyes.  He wasn’t ashamed of them.  His voice was a croak when he said “At least I get to say goodbye, this time.”

Merriell could only nod, a jerk of his head, eyes wide and haunted.  “Yeah.”

Eugene ran a hand through his hair, then shoved both of them into his pockets so that he wouldn’t reach out for his friend again.  “Am I ever gonna see you again, Mer?”

Merriell’s throat bobbed for a moment, and his voice was thick, forced when he said “I don’t know, Gene.  We’ll see.”  Then he nodded again, clapped Eugene firmly on his shoulder, turned, and boarded the train without looking back.  A minute later, the train pulled away.

Eugene still felt the burn of Shelton’s hand on his skin the whole quiet, lonely drive back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sorry.


	5. Reconciling Our Choices

 

 

Somehow, it had gotten both better and worse.

His parents had been waiting for him when he got back from the station—his mother’s face had been grim, worried, tempered only slightly by his father’s eternal patience.  They’d started in on the questions before he even walked in through the door.  _“Where were you?”_ and _“Who was that?”_ and _“Eugene, dear, please say something.”  “What’s wrong?”  “Eugene, are you alright?”  “Who was that man?”  “What did he want?”  “Honey, are you hurt?  What happened?”_

It was too much.  How was Eugene supposed to explain to his parents who Merriell Shelton was, let alone who he was to Eugene, what they’d been to each other?  There weren’t words for it.  He’d done his best though, said what he’d needed to in order to allay his parents’ fears.  _Old war buddy_ and _saved my life, saved his_ and _got each other through it,_ didn’t even begin to describe it.  Those were flat descriptions, words that anyone could have thrown at them.  They were true, but not the truth.  He could have said _I feel like I lost a part of myself,_ and _I can’t seem to breathe properly,_ and _I only feel safe sleeping when I know he’s watching my back_ and _I know exactly how his eyes look, lips quirk, snarl, glare, when he feels happy/sad/rage/love/fear/annoyance/playful_ and _he’s the perfect kind of warm, solid, whole._ But they didn’t want to hear those things, and anyway wouldn’t understand them even if they had. 

So Eugene swallowed it down, buried it deep, and held it close.

 

 

Even Sidney didn’t get it, though he tried.  He took Eugene out for drinks one night, and over a cheap beer, he said “Yeah, I miss some of the guys, too.  Might visit one of them later.  Probably invite a few of them to my wedding, too.”  He clapped Eugene on the back.  “You’re not the only one, buddy.  Returning is hard, after living with those guys for so long.  Give it time.  It’ll get easier.”

But Eugene knew that it wouldn’t.  It wasn’t the same malady that afflicted Sidney and Eugene.  Eugene was self-aware enough to know that.  There wasn’t a cure for what he had.

But it wasn’t all terrible, drowning, gasping, panic pain fear.  It had gotten better in some ways, too.

Now, when he woke up gasping, clawing at his sheets, screaming, sweating, pawing at his own heart, pushing his own hair back, reaching for someone who wasn’t there, he could tell himself that it was all just a dream.  That somewhere in New Orleans, Snafu was alive.  He was alive, and it had just been another gut wrenching dream.  Just another fucking memory or fear made real in the depths of the night.  He had that to cling to, now.

Even in his waking hours, he had that to cling to.  When the walls felt like they were pressing in, and he felt like he just couldn’t breathe, he reminded himself that his friend was still alive, was out there living, breathing, getting by.  He’d come to see Eugene.  They’d spoken.  That fucking train wasn’t the end.  Eugene had gotten his goodbye this time, if not his closure.  He doubted there was a kind of closure that would satisfy him in this regard.  It almost felt like parts of them had fused together in the constant heat and damp of those godforsaken islands in the Pacific.  Now they were separated from each other and Eugene felt the constant ache of that. 

But he also felt hope.

Snaf had been right about one thing.  He couldn’t be responsible for Eugene, and he sure as hell wouldn’t be the one to make decisions for him, either. 

 

* * *

 

 

_The ground exploded around them, raining mud onto their helmets, spraying into their eyes along with deadly, glinting bits of shrapnel.  They had to keep moving.  Up, up, up.  The only chance they had was to get above that fire, get into the stone labyrinth of those hills._

_“Down!” Burgie screamed, and they all dropped, clutching their helmets and their guns, as dozens of Japanese mortar shells rained down upon them, and the sky was lit with tracers._

_“Move!”  They dug their heels in for leverage and began to climb once more._

_“Fuck!”  One of the men screamed, as the man in front of him took a bullet to the face.  “Keep moving!”_

_“There’s no way out!”  Hillbilly screamed back at them.  “Fall back!  Fall back!”_

_They stumbled over each other in their hurry to get the hell out of there—they’d been penned in against a stone wall, like rats caught in a trap, and beyond the rain and the sound of mortar fire, they heard the roar of engines.  “Down, down, fucking down!”  Burgie screamed, and he dropped into the mud just as a plane buzzed them, machine guns rattling, men screaming, rock exploding everywhere around them._

_“We’re gonna die!”  One of the new recruits was screaming.  “WE’RE GONNA DIE!”_

_“Shut the fuck up and move!” Snafu screamed at him, pushing himself up as he grabbed Eugene’s poncho and hauled him up as well.  They slipped in the mud, stumbling, and it sucked at their boots, desperate to drag them down and drown them.  “Fucking move!”_

_The plane buzzed them again, and men dropped all around them, screaming, blood spraying, mud flying, bullets tearing through them.  They had to get out of this fucking maze._

_Snafu clutched his rifle like a fucking life line, moved his feet faster, forward, and just knew that he couldn’t stop.  If he stopped, he was dead.  Beside him, he heard a yelp, and he turned just in time to see Eugene drop back, clutching at his leg.  “Sledge!”  Snafu screamed, dropping back to grab him.  “Get up!  Gotta run!”  He grasped his arm, pulled him up, and helped him to hobble forward.  “Gotta keep going!”  He screamed.  They pushed forward, through the mud, down, down, down, while other Marines died all around them._

_Snafu felt another jerk and a strange splash of warmth, they stumbled, and he fell back into the mud, Eugene toppling beside him.  “Sledge!”  He screamed, looking down at his friend.  Blood bubbled from Eugene’s pink lips, down his chin.  He was choking on it, coughing!  A sickly red rose blossomed on his chest, growing larger.  “Sledge!”  Snafu screamed again, panic gripping him.  He pulled Eugene’s head up, covered the wound with his other hand, felt the blood pulse between his dirty fingers.  “Gene!”  He begged.  Gene reached for him, fingers weak and wobbling, eyes fluttering, mouth moving uselessly as blood drenched his tongue.  “GENE!”_

Merriell jerked awake, drenched in his own sweat, his voice still echoing in the thin walled room of his apartment.  Someone banged through the wall from next door, shouting “Shut the fuck up over there!  Tryna sleep here!”

He gulped in air, fighting the panic, fighting to get a grasp on where he was, when he was.  Tried to tell himself that the stench of mud and blood wasn’t real, not anymore.  Just a memory.  Eugene wasn’t dead.  He’d made it back.  Merriell had made sure of it.

It was just a nightmare.  Just another fucking nightmare.

The rest of the night found him sitting at his rickety table with a half-drained, diminishing bottle of whiskey next to him, his kitchen as brightly lit as he could make it.  His hands still shook as he tipped the bottle back, again, and took a long pull.  He grimaced, reached toward the stack of letters with his shaky fingers.  He read through the letters again, in order, just to remind himself that Eugene really was alive.  It was all the proof he had right now, and his mind had grown fond of playing tricks on him.

Thing is, he hadn’t had nightmares like that until he’d gone to Mobile.

They were his punishment, he figured, for leaving a second time.  Merriell knew that he didn’t deserve any kind of peace.  Maybe this was what Gene had talked about before, in the third letter, when he’d told Merriell about the nightmares, the sleepless nights, the flashbacks.  When he’d said he was losing his grasp.  When he’d said the things that had scared Merriell badly enough that he’d gotten on a train and practically run to Eugene.

Still, it hadn’t been enough.  Merriell Shelton was a miserable bastard and he knew that he deserved this.  He looked around his lonely, sad apartment, clutched the whiskey close and let the letter fall back to the table.  This was a hell of his own making, after all.


	6. Agent Of My Own Fate

 

 

 

He arrived on Merriell’s door step in the same manner that the other man had arrived at his: in the dark, unannounced, with no bags, no promises, nothing but himself.  He could hear the other man grumbling through the door, heavy footsteps approaching, before the door was jerked open, and then Merriell stood there, a fucking miracle.  He was shirtless, wearing only low-slung, too-loose, ratty jeans.  Barefoot.  Mussed hair.  Eyes always too wide, bruises underneath.  “Eugene?”  He whispered, almost like he wasn’t sure who he was really seeing.  “Sledge?”  Pale, wide eyes roamed over his face, his body, taking him all in, awed, maybe afraid he was seeing a ghost.  Then “What are you doin’ here?”  Before Eugene had a chance to answer, Snafu’s tanned hand darted out, wrapped long, strong fingers around his wrist and pulled him into the apartment before abruptly slamming the door behind him. 

“Hey, Mer,” Eugene said, with a soft smile in spite of the obvious tension running through his friend.  “I wanted to come say hi.”

“Hi?”  Merriell said flatly, disbelieving.  “Hi?!  Ain’t that what letters are for?  What the fuck are you _doing here,_ Sledge?!”

Eugene squared his shoulders.  “I’m going to be in the city for a while.  I wanted to let you know that I’m here.”  Merriell opened his mouth, maybe to yell again, maybe to protest, but before he could, Eugene pushed on.  “Look, before you say anything else, I’m not here to be a burden on you.  In fact, I’m not asking you for anything.”  Merriell’s mouth snapped closed.  “I realized you were right.”  He sighed, itching for a cigarette, but abstaining.  “Before, in Mobile.  You said that you weren’t my keeper, and that we had no right to make choices for each other.  You were right.  So I’m not going to ask you for anything.  But I wanted you to know that I’m here.  If you want.”

Merriell gulped down a breath, and maybe his temper.  Eugene could see his hands twitch where they were balled into fists at his sides.  Maybe to keep him from hitting, or maybe from grabbing.  Maybe….  “What the fuck does that mean?”

“I’m staying at The Crowne on Canal Street while I look for work.”

“You… _what?!  Work_?  HAVE YOU LOST YOUR DAMN MIND?!”

Eugene frowned softly at his friend, let him work through whatever was going on in his head.  Finally, “No, I haven’t.  I decided that Mobile wasn’t what I needed right now.  I wanted a change.”

“So you came here?”  Flat again, disbelieving.

“Why not?”

“Why not?!  Sledge, New Orleans ain’t the kind of place you just show up in if you ain’t from around here.  It’s dangerous.”

Eugene laughed, darkly.  “Bad germs, right?”  Merriell’s mouth clicked shut and his eyes shuttered again.  “I _can_ take care of myself, you know.  And that’s what I’m going to do.”

“So why are you here, then?  Why are you even telling me, if you can _take care of yourself_?”

Eugene squared his shoulders again, and summoned all of his courage.  “I wanted to let you know I’m here.  In case you change your mind.”

“About?”

“About us not fitting into each other’s lives anymore.”  Eugene took a step back toward the door, turned the knob, but hesitated on opening it.  “I don’t need you to take care of me, Snaf.  But that’s not all we were to each other.”  And with that, Eugene opened the door and left, descending the stairs to the street quickly, before he could stop himself from leaving.

Snafu didn’t try to stop him.

 

* * *

 

 

 

It had started months ago.  At first, it was just _Dear, wouldn’t you like to visit Sid today?_ And _Maybe another walk would do you some good?_ Which had morphed into _You haven’t been to see Sidney in more than a week, Eugene,_ and _Perhaps you should accompany your father on his rounds today._ And finally, _It’s been months, Eugene.  Maybe you should think about what you want to do?_ And _This is your life, Eugene, it’s time to make a decision,_ and _That time—it’s done, honey—try to let it go._

He knew that his mother didn’t mean any harm, but her constant prodding had him feeling boxed in, trapped, backed against a jagged stone wall with the enemy closing in on all sides.  It was too much.  Eugene couldn’t really breathe.  His father had tempered it a little, but he could tell that even the unshakeable Dr. Sledge was becoming frustrated with his youngest son’s apathy.  He’d always had such high hopes for Eugene.  And now…. Well, now, they wanted him to move on with his life, pretend like the last few years hadn’t happened, pretend like he hadn’t spent days on end awake, entrenched in mud and blood and shit, killing other men for a living, while trying not to be killed.  Still, maybe his parents were right.  Maybe they were all right.  He _did_ need to start making decisions.  This _was_ his life.

His parents hadn’t taken the news well.  He’d announced that he wasn’t sure if school or work was the right course for him, said that he wasn’t looking for a wife to settle down and have kids with, wasn’t sure of much at all, but that maybe a change of scenery would help.  His father had asked him to reconsider, to be reasonable.  His mother had begged him to stay, had forbidden him from leaving.

In the end, Eugene didn’t tell them where he was going.  He left by train early the next morning, feeling more alive, more sure, than he had in a very long time.

Now, in the soft golden light of his room at The Crowne, he unpacked the meager belongings he’d brought with him to his new life in New Orleans.  A few shirts and pants, his Bible, a couple books to keep him busy in the long hours of the night, a journal and sketch pad, and his dog tags, tucked securely in a pair of socks.  It wasn’t much, but then, he’d learned that he didn’t need much anymore.

The room was nice.  Spacious.  Clean.  He had enough money in his savings that he could afford to stay there for a while, until he figured something else out, but he didn’t mean to stay for long.  He wanted something more permanent, some place where he could live and work and get on with the business of figuring things out.  With himself.  And with Merriell.

It had been a gamble.  Coming here.  Being honest with Shelton.  He hadn’t had any idea how Snafu would take the news.  Hadn’t known whether to expect punches and yelling or… or something else. 

All Eugene allowed himself to feel about it now was hope. He was here, and he was going to make the best of it, and Merriell Shelton would make his own decisions about it.  And Eugene would do his best to accept those decisions.

 

* * *

 

 

That night, shielded by the unfamiliar walls of the hotel room, draped in the starched, slightly stiff sheets, and lulled by the sounds of New Orleans at night, Eugene’s nightmares weren’t so bad.

 

* * *

 

 

He set off early in the morning, just as the city began to bustle once more. 

He hadn’t been able to stay in his room for another moment, the energy in him coiled tight like a spring that needed an outlet.  He needed pavement under his feet, leg muscles pumping, heart working.  He needed to be moving, or else the panicked, pressing feeling would drown him again, and he was done with that.  Done with it.

The city was bigger than he’d imagined—it was the biggest city he’d ever been to with the exception of maybe Peking.  But this was different.  Eugene had brought _himself_ here.

He lit a cigarette and started off.  Ideally, he was looking for work, but more than that, he wanted to learn about this place, about what made it so unique and alluring, what made its children so loyal to it.  Eugene had no destination, so for now, he was content to let his feet lead him. 

He passed buildings that were obviously hundreds of years old, tall and regal, still with the air of French aristocracy about them.  He passed strange graveyards where the tombs were crooked, sinking, and set above the earth.  He walked through neighborhoods that almost reminded him off home, with their white painted houses, clean yards, flowers under the windows.  He also walked through places that made him sad inside, places that looked like they’d been under fire for years, places that looked a lot like maybe the people there were fighting a war of their own.

Eugene took it all in, step after step, smoke after smoke.  He saw a lot that surprised him, which in itself was a revelation because he’d thought that nothing could surprise him anymore. 

The city was loud and full of strange smells, not all of them pleasant.  He’d walked down a large, sprawling street, stuffed with cars and pedestrians, and he’d found a sense of relief at blending in with them, just walking, allowing himself to move with the crowd.  None of these people knew him, none of them expected anything from him at all.  It was a comfort.  In another part of the city, people had called out to him as he’d passed, including a few scantily clad women and a man who’d looked like no level of casual violence would bother him.  The attention had made the back of Eugene’s neck itch and he’d moved on more quickly, determined not to let the pounding of his heart in his throat choke him.

The city pressed impression upon impression against him, so that as he moved through the streets, he accumulated gauzy layers of history and smoke and laughter and perfume.  And he couldn’t help but imagining his friend here.  A young Merriell, mischievous smile on his face, darting through the streets with a stolen beignet in his grasp, or a teenage Shelton, sweat-soaked from work, winking at the lines of women hanging out of doorways and windows.  He could imagine an angry Shelton prowling down by the docks, or near the bars, spoiling for a fight, and a deranged, sullen Snafu darkening the road before him with all of his hate and rage, too thick to cut through. 

Eugene felt like no matter where he went in the city, Merriell’s feet had touched down there too.  His reflection in store-front windows wasn’t really his own.  The smoke from his cigarette exhaled from someone else’s lungs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eugene Sledge is a stubborn bastard.


	7. The Streets of New Orleans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some homophobic language as well as some racism and classism. Also Snafu being a creeper.

 

 

He nearly took his own damn arm off at work that first day, he was so distracted.  Luckily, he’d jerked himself back in time, but the saw had still given him a nice angry slash on his forearm—enough to remind him to keep his fool head about him.  Still, it was hard to focus.  All he kept thinking about was Eugene.

Eugene, who was here, in New Orleans.  Here.

Merriell still couldn’t wrap his head around it, couldn’t figure out what it might mean.  Sledge had said he would be here, if Merriell wanted.  If he wanted what?

And that was the real fucking question, wasn’t it?  Did he want Sledge in his life at all, and if so, what did he want from him?  Well, maybe it wasn’t much of a question, after all.  Merriell had known what he wanted from that boy since Peleliu.  It had just gotten harder to lie about since then. 

He didn’t like thinking about what it meant.  Didn’t like acknowledging it to himself, even though it was always there, burning, consuming.  When he’d first met Sledge on Pavuvu, he’d written him off as too soft, too innocent, dead meat.  He hadn’t given him much time.  But he _had_ noticed him, regardless.  He’d noticed his smiles and laughs, his goodwill toward others, his hope and faith, and belief in an ultimate good.  Remembered watching him read his Bible every day.  Snafu had been sure that he wouldn’t last a day in combat.

But he had.  Sledge had managed to drag himself over that beach on Peleliu, had dragged himself through the days after that, had even dragged Merriell’s own sorry ass across that air field.  And everything had changed after that.  Merriell had watched him, closely.  He’d tracked Sledge when the other man wasn’t looking, maneuvered himself so that they were always near, listened to him when he spoke with the others.  There was something so fucking _good_ about him, that Merriell had been drawn like a moth to a flame, helpless, even though he knew that eventually it might hurt him.  He’d _wanted._ Wanted so many things.  Sledge’s attention.  His regard.  His laugh and smile and casual touch.  He’d wanted to be someone that his new friend could count on, and that was saying something, because for most of his life, Merriell hadn’t given a shit about that, had been told that he was worthless.  But he also knew that wanting Sledge and deserving him were two different things.

He’d done what he could.  He’d realized that he was a bad influence, darkening Sledge’s soul with his dark humor and Jap teeth and blood on his hands, his casual insanity.  But he’d also realized those things were tools.  Useful for keeping Snafu safe.  Useful for keeping Sledge safe, too.  No one wanted to fuck with Snafu, not even the officers.  They understood that he was like a mad dog, that he could bite at any minute, and that his jaws wouldn’t ease up until his enemy was dead.  They understood that with a look at his eyes.  And so he used that to get them through.  It worked, mostly.

But Sledge had gotten darker too.  It was hard watching it happen, but at the same time, Snafu knew that maybe Sledge needed to be that way if he wanted to make it back home.  Sledge was a good enough person that Merriell thought maybe, even after everything, he could go back to the way things had been before, or at least close to it.  So maybe he’d have some bad memories, some scars, but he had a family waiting back home for him in Mobile, and he had friends, and he was smart and dedicated, and handsome.  A real catch. 

The best thing Merriell could do for him, the best he could hope for, was to let him go home, and forget.  Merriell understood that what he wanted from Sledge, he could never have.  Never.  It would mean the end for them, the end for any chance Sledge had at a decent life.  There would be no coming back from what Merriell wanted.

Growing up, he’d heard the words often enough, before people had been afraid to say anything to him at all.  Faggot.  Queer.  They weren’t surprised.  After all, he was already so many other bad things.  Swamp trash.  Poor.  Dirty.  The son of a useless drunk and a mother who died too soon.  Thief.  Waste.  He’d learned to take those names, and make them his.  Yes, he was those things.  Yes, he sure was.  And he’d fucking show you too, if you didn’t keep your goddamn mouth shut about it.  Show you what he really was.

No one had appreciated that until the Marines.  They’d seen his penchant for rage and violence and said _Yes, good, now go over to this little island and kill.  Kill your heart out._ And he had.  But no one had ever expected him to cling to the one fucking bright, pure thing in the whole of the Pacific Theater.  No one had expected that, and least of all Snafu himself.

Eugene was a weakness, but he was Merriell’s weakness, and he’d been okay with that. 

But then the war had ended, and Merriell had tried to do a good thing.  Had swallowed all of his own pain and clinging want, and he’d set Eugene free.  He’d gotten off that train without saying goodbye and he’d put himself to the task of getting over that red hair, brown eyes, soft heart.  It hadn’t been going well.

And then Sledge just had to ruin it.  Just had to throw the only kind of fucking bait that Merriell couldn’t ignore.  His own pain, of course.  Merriell would ignore the hole in his own heart, the sucking blackness that hounded him every single day.  But he couldn’t stand Eugene’s pain.  Couldn’t bear it.  He wondered if maybe Sledge knew that.  If that’s why he sent the letters.  He’d known that Merriell would come running.  Had known that he couldn’t help himself.

But Merriell was nothing if not stubborn, himself.  He wouldn’t give in so easily.  He was damned and determined to do right by Eugene, even if he had to be mean about it.  Eugene deserved better than him.  Eugene deserved the best.  Why couldn’t he see that?  What had Snafu done to him to keep him clinging like this after?  He’d fucking ruined him.

And now.  Now, Eugene had come here.  Here, where he knew that Merriell would never be able to ignore him.  Would fret over him constantly.  Would feel that fucking draw again, moth to the flame, and hunt him down.  What the hell did Eugene want from him?!  He’d said that he wasn’t asking Merriell for anything, but that was a lie.  They both knew it.  Sledge was a liar, and a bad one at that.  But maybe he’d get tired.  Maybe he’d change his mind.  Maybe New Orleans would be too much, Merriell himself would be too much, and he’d go back home where he belonged.  Find a nice girl, settle down, get married.  Have lots of red-haired babies who laughed and played, and grew up without want.

Merriell could never give him any of those things.

 

* * *

 

 

Throughout the day, he’d fought to calm his heart and settle his stomach, but his body refused.  He hadn’t been able to keep the slight tremor from his hands, no matter how many cigarettes he smoked. 

He found himself, hours later, as the sun was sinking behind the jagged skyline of the city, standing outside of The Crowne on Canal Street. 

It wasn’t hard to find—it was a large, beautiful building.  The kind of place that Merriell himself could never afford.  But he was glad that Sledge was holed up here.  Better than most places he could find himself in New Orleans.  ‘Least it looked safe enough.  Had a doorman and everything.

Merriell leaned against a lamp post across the street and flicked his eyes over the reflective windows, slowly glowing to life, and tried to figure out which one might belong to Sledge.  He could imagine him up there, head bent over a book or some papers, concentrating.  Clothes folded neatly and put away.  Smoking his pipe.

The sky darkened around him and the streetlamps came on.  The one above him cast him in a soft golden glow.  A pile of cigarette butts lay dead at his feet. 

It was a long time later that he found himself crossing the street.  He went as far as the doorway, then stood there, wondering what the fuck he could possibly be thinking.  The doorman, starched and pristine and without a hint of the slouch Merriell bore gave him an unimpressed, assessing look before he asked “Going in… _sir_?”

Merriell stared at him for a moment before throwing his last cigarette down at his feet and crushing it with his boot.  “No.”  Then he turned around and walked back home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 He was usually up before the sun, when he found he could sleep at all.  This morning, his stomach had protested even at a cup of coffee.  So he was living on smokes. 

He set up in the small park across from The Crowne just as the sun was coming up.  He was content to wait a while.

Eugene emerged at half past seven, looking fresh and happy, with a jaunt in his step.  He headed up the street, obviously a man on a mission.  Merriell waited a bit before he pushed himself away from the low retaining wall and followed.

He watched, a hungry ghost, when Eugene stopped for a sticky roll at a small café on the street.  Merriell watched him take a bite and close his eyes, tip his head back in pleasure.  His jaw worked as he chewed.  A smile curled his lips.  And then he was moving again, and Merriell followed.

They wound through the streets of the French Quarter together, admiring the fine architecture and the smooth music that floated on the air.  Crowds of excited tourists moved between them. Merriell nearly let himself wonder what it might be like if Sledge knew he was there. 

Sledge wandered into shops and restaurants and other hotels along the way.  Merriell waited outside, smoking, his belly grumbling.  Every time, Sledge emerged empty handed, his friendly, forced smile fading as he moved on from the doorway.  Probably no one else would notice, and hell, no one else here cared, but he could see Eugene’s good spirits failing.  He wanted to say something to his friend.  Something.  Anything.  Maybe _I told you so._ But also maybe _Don’t give up yet._   He dared not move closer. 

Merriell could smell the smoke of Eugene’s cigarette as he followed.

Hours passed.  Didn’t matter.  Compared to the marches of Okinawa, this was a leisurely stroll.  They passed through the French Quarter and into Faubourg Marigny. As they drew further and further east, Merriell feared that Sledge was heading for Bywater, Merriell’s own neighborhood, and he felt his stomach curl.  What was Sledge doing, coming this way?  He wasn’t headed to see Merriell again, was he?  And anyway, didn’t that fool understand it was dangerous here?

But in the end, Merriell had nothing to worry about.  Eugene hadn’t been going to see him, after all.

The sky grew darker in slow increments, and somehow, he found them turning back toward the hotel.  Merriell only allowed his own weary feet to march toward home after Eugene slipped back through the hotel doors, safe and sound.

 

 

* * *

 

 

On Sunday, Sledge found his way back to Bywater.

Merriell cursed, stalking his heels, and doing his best to keep both close and out of sight.  Sledge was a damn fool.  Didn’t he understand that sweet little rich boys didn’t belong here?  This wasn’t the part of town where someone like him should be walking without protection.  People in this neighborhood would knife you as soon as smile, and then take all your money and leave you lying there in your own blood.  Merriell knew.  He lived here.

Sledge followed the same pattern as the day before—he stopped into restaurants, shops, and hotels.  Each time, he emerged shaking his head, rolling his shoulders back, and determinedly marching on.  Sledge didn’t seem deterred by whatever rejection he was receiving, but then again, this was only day three.  Merriell knew for a fact that it’d take more than three days for Sledge to back down.  But maybe he’d get bored, or tired, and decide that this wasn’t worth the trouble. 

A lot of folks watched Sledge calculatingly as he walked through the neighborhood, but most of them caught Merriell’s eye soon after and they nodded their heads in understanding, and averted their gazes.  Not everyone in the Bywater knew him personally, but Merriell had a reputation he’d spent his whole life cultivating.  No one in this shit hole was going to fuck with him.  At least, not without good reason.  And for the moment, that went for Sledge, too.  But Merriell couldn’t watch his back forever.  Hadn’t he told Sledge that same thing?  _I ain’t your keeper._

As the morning progressed, they moved closer and closer into the Bywater, closer and closer toward Merriell’s squalid little apartment.  He grew antsy as they neared.  Sledge didn’t belong here.  He couldn’t be here.  Merriell longed to pull him out of this place, kicking and screaming.  Another day of this and maybe he would.  Maybe he’d haul his skinny ass back to Mobile himself and deliver him into the caring hands of his parents.  Maybe he….

Sledge had stopped, suddenly, and tipped his head back to take in a new building: tall, red brick with bright blue shutters and door.  Above the door, in large white letters, a sign that proclaimed _Lily Marie’s Boarding House._ Merriell moved into the shadowed overhang of a bar across the street.  Sledge squared his shoulders and opened the door, disappearing into the darkness of the building.

Merriell waited for twenty minutes.  Sledge didn’t come out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any errors in portraying the city.


	8. Lily Marie

 

 

 

With each step that he took, he felt himself drawing closer to Snafu’s home.  Eugene had memorized the address, but he didn’t think he’d be able to find his way back there on his own without getting lost.  But he knew it was near.  Could feel it.

He also recognized that he was in a dangerous part of town.  The sort of dangerous that Mer had warned him about.

His shoulders twitched as he moved further down the street.  He could feel the eyes of the neighborhood’s inhabitants skittering over his back, lingering, calculating.  It reminded him of war, again, of always feeling Jap eyes on you, knowing one of them was just waiting to slit your throat when you’d let your guard down.  Eugene’s fingers twitched, and for the first time since he’d been stateside, he wanted a rifle in his hands.   

He clenched his fists then shook his fingers out and forced himself to breathe.  No matter how this place made him itch, it was nothing next to what he’d been through.  Nothing.  And he had more important matters to deal with anyway.

He paused outside of a large brick building that proclaimed itself as _Lily Marie’s Boarding House._

Squaring his shoulders and taking a steadying breath, Eugene pulled the door open and went in.

 

* * *

 

 

The door opened on a wood-paneled entryway and a tall counter, behind which stood a lovely young woman with black hair, pulled back, and honey eyes that she raised when Eugene stepped over the threshold.  Her eyes tracked over him, head to toes and back again, before she fixed a small, obviously forced smile on her lips and said “Can I help you?”

Eugene smiled, wiped his sweaty palms on his slacks, and then extended a hand toward her.  “Hi.  My name is Eugene Sledge, ma’am.  I was wondering whether you were looking for help?”

The woman’s brows furrowed and her lips quirked down just a bit, but Eugene noticed and he felt his stomach drop, again.  She ignored his outstretched hand and Eugene let it drop.  “What kind of work are you looking for?”

He forced his smile to hold, even though he could feel the axe coming.  This was further than he’d gotten in most places he’d stopped in, after all.  “Any kind, ma’am.  I’m willing to do whatever you need doing.”

She leaned toward the counter a bit more, a subtle shift of her body.  “You’re not from around here.”  Her eyes measured him up again.  “Where are you from?”

“Alabama, ma’am.  I’m new to town and looking for work.”

“Just passing through?”

“No.  I intend to stay.”

She made a soft humming sound.  “What kind of experience do you have?”

At this point, Eugene felt a blush coming on.  This question was always the worst.  “I was in the Marines, ma’am.”  He ran a hand through his sweaty hair, knowing it was a mess and couldn’t be saved.  “I don’t have a lot of experience doing much else, if I’m honest.  But…  Well.  I’m a quick learner and I promise I’ll do my best at whatever you need me to do.  I’m willing to start anywhere.”

The women’s eyes softened around the edges.  “When did you get back?”  She asked, instead of so many other things.

“About five months ago.”  He huffed a tired laugh.  “It hasn’t been easy.  Coming back.”

She nodded, considering.  “I mostly run this place by myself.  My cleaning girl, Shiree, can only come part time.  I could use some help with that.  Cleaning.  Some cooking.  Maybe some maintenance.  Do you think you can handle that?”

Eugene nodded eagerly.  “Yes, ma’am.  I will do my best for you.  Whatever I don’t know, I promise I will learn quickly.”

The woman hummed again.  “I’d be willing to start you on a trial basis.  See if you pick things up.”  She tapped her fingers on the counter.  “I don’t have a lot I can pay you.  I do have a room, though.  Room and board and whatever I can spare, elsewise.  That’s as good as I can do.”

Eugene nodded, a genuine smile stretching across his face.  “That sounds fair to me.  Thank you so much, ma’am.  Thank you.”  He glanced around the entry way again, absorbing it in a new way now.  “When would you like me to start?”

The woman’s lips twitched.  A placating smile.  There and gone again.  “Come by tomorrow morning, and I’ll get you set up.”

“I’ll be here bright and early,” Eugene promised.

The woman nodded.  “Good.”  She stared at him for a moment longer, maybe trying to figure him out, maybe trying to decide whether she’d just made a huge mistake.  Eugene could only stare back.  She couldn’t have been any older than himself, but there was a depth to her eyes that he recognized, a tightness to her petite shoulders that he’d felt for a very long time.  She carried a lot with her, too.  Eugene wasn’t sure if she eventually found what she was looking for or not, but she finally relaxed her gaze and let out a soft breath.  “I’ll see you in the morning, Eugene.  Be sure to bring your things, and I’ll have the room waiting.”

“Yes ma’am.”  Eugene just barely held back a salute.  Despite her youth, the woman had a commanding personality.

“And call me Lily Marie.”  She added, finally allowing the first hint of a real smile.

“Sure,” Eugene grinned.  “Lily Marie.  Have a good day.”  And then, before she could change her mind, he retreated back into the sunlight of the street.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Eugene hadn’t felt so happy in a very long time—he still felt his smile curving his lips, felt a lightness to his step.  He was like a new man.  Accomplished. 

He emerged into the sunlight and came face to face with Snafu, who leaned against the lamp post just outside the door, the stub of a burnt-out cigarette still hanging from his mouth.  “’Bout time,” he drawled, “I was jus’ ‘bout to come in there after you.”

Eugen’s mouth dropped open.  “Snaf?”  He shook himself.  “What are you doing here?”

“Me?”  Snafu pushed himself away from the lamp post and dropped the cigarette butt.  His eyes hardened.  “What are _you_ doing here?”

Eugene rolled his shoulders back, ready for this fight.  “I told you.  Looking for work.”  He let his eyes roam his friend’s face, took in the tightness around his mouth, the tension in his shoulders.  “Were you following me?”

Snafu snorted.  “Looking out for your fool self, since someone’s gotta.”

Eugene made himself stand taller.  “We’ve been over this, Snaf.  I can take care of myself.”

“Obviously not.  You even know what this place is?”

“Yeah,” Eugene growled.  “It’s your neighborhood.”

“That’s right,” Snaf snarled back.  “And it’s filled with bloodthirsty sons of bitches who’d kill you soon as look at you.  You walk in here like nothing gonna touch you, but that ain’t this place, Eugene.  This aint ‘Bama no more.”

“I’ll get used to it.”  Eugene said.

“What?”  Snafu’s eyes narrowed.

“I said I’ll get used to it.  I’ll be around for a while.”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“I just found myself a job.  And lodging.”  Eugene nodded back toward the boarding house.  “Miss Lily Marie just hired me.”

Snafu’s jaw dropped.  “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me.”  He seemed torn between disbelief, outrage, and humor.  “You got a job working here?  Doin’ what?”

Eugene squared his shoulders.  “Cleaning.  Maintenance.  Whatever she needs.”

“Whatever she needs,” Snafu repeated, his eyes narrowing.  “Eugene, you probably ain’t ever done a day’s work like that in your life.”

Eugene really hated that tone, condescending, doubtful, disbelieving.  He’d heard it from so many people in the last few years.  He hadn’t wanted to hear it from Merriell, too.  “Yeah, well, I never killed a man before the Marines, either, and I did okay at that, didn’t I?  I’m a quick learner, Snaf.  Don’t worry about me.”

Instead of waiting for a response, Eugene turned on his heel and headed back to his hotel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the only ship in this story is Sledge/Snafu, but that doesn't mean that Snaf won't get incredibly jealous.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember, comments give me life and are always appreciated! Also feel free to stalk my tumblr at http://realhunterswearplaid.tumblr.com/
> 
>  


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